


haunted

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Consensual Sex, Dead Stiles Stilinski, Grieving, Implied Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Wild Hunt (Teen Wolf), Protective Derek, Slow Build, Uncle/Nephew Incest, leaving beacon hills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 02:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15571890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Peter leaves Beacon Hills to the sound of thunder and horse hooves.He leaves, the wind chasing leaves around his ankles, reeking of terror, and Lydia’s screams in his ears.He tries to convince himself, even as he slips into the Camaro, that he isn’t running.





	haunted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syriala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syriala/gifts).



Peter leaves Beacon Hills to the sound of thunder and horse hooves. 

He leaves, the wind chasing leaves around his ankles, reeking of terror, and Lydia’s screams in his ears. 

He tries to convince himself, even as he slips into the Camaro, that he isn’t running. 

*

Derek drove. 

Every time he slowed, edged the car toward an exit, Peter’s claws slipped out and his heartbeat went too fast, erratic and afraid, and Derek kept on pushing them forward. 

He passes out, hard, after three hours, and he sleeps so deep that he thinks he could stop, and Peter wouldn’t even notice. 

He doesn’t. Something in his uncle’s eyes makes him drive, until they’re coasting on fumes, and even then, he only stops long enough to fuel the car and get two bags of greasy burgers and fries-- ~~_ he thinks about curly fries and his stomach churns and someone, some _ one _ with laughing eyes and a wide mouth fills his mind _ ~~ \--and then he’s back on the road, the city lights fading away even before Peter rouses to the scent of food. 

* 

Peter eats like he’s starving, like he hasn’t eaten in months, and Derek watches him, nibbles on fries and half a burger, leaves the rest of it to Peter. 

He can see the questions in Derek’s eyes. 

He can see the questions and he has no idea how to help him. He only knew, the Wild Hunt was taking Beacon Hills and Derek--Derek knew him, remembered him, and he came, when Peter called. 

He came, no questions or excuses, despite everything, and even now he isn’t asking. It’s the closest thing he’s felt to pack since he stood with Stiles in a train station to nowhere. 

* 

They drive for almost two days--eventually, Derek is too tired to continue, and Peter agrees to stop in Houston, in a crowded hotel. Derek thinks he’ll sleep, but he doesn’t, just sits close enough to Derek to touch, and watches the door all night. 

The drive until the reach the border, and then further, until they reach the coast, trailing down it until Peter puts a hand on Derek’s at the gas station they stop at. His uncle is swaying on his feet, he looks sick, and scared, and Derek bites down on the whine he feels as he watches Peter. 

Peter, who is watching a blue jeep-- ~~_ it looks familiar and he doesn’t know why _ ~~ \--trundling down the beach road. “Here,” he says, “let’s stay here.” 

Derek thinks about asking. 

He thinks about the little cabin in the mountains outside of Denver he’d been living in, when Peter called, voice shaking. 

He thinks about Cora, and he thinks--he thinks about the way Peter had stayed awake, trembling and eyes glowing, all night, while Derek slept. 

“Ok,” he says. 

*

The little house on the beach is drafty and dirty, it’s got roaches the size of small kittens scuttling for the corners when Derek flips on the light, it looks  _ worse _ than the godforsaken train station his nephew lived in with his puppy pack. 

Peter gives him a very dry look and feels almost like himself when he says, “Absolutely not.” 

* 

He’s trying. 

Derek can  _ see _ him trying. Peter finds a villa on the edge of town and the ocean, and fills it with beautiful furniture, expensive wine, clothes he never wears, and he hides himself in books. He’ll argue with Derek, rise to the occasion with sass and something that almost looks like humor in his eyes, and on the full moon, he runs, shifted in his beta form while Derek runs on four paws, and it feels--

It feels wrong. 

It feels like Peter is  _ trying _ but there’s something-- _ someone _ \--holding him back. 

Sometimes, Peter looks at him, and he doesn’t know what his uncle sees, but he know it makes him sad and Derek  _ hates _ that. 

They left-- ~~_ where did they leave? He can’t remember. _ ~~ \--but it feels like whatever was chasing Peter is still there, breathing down his neck. 

*

The thunder makes him scream. 

He doesn’t realize it, until Derek slams out of his room, doesn’t realize he’s curled in a ball in the corner, his eyes wide and unseeing and it’s only Derek’s panicked voice that snaps him out of his terror. 

He stares for a moment, and the echoes of thunder rumble over the ocean, and he makes a noise, a broken sob, and Derek pulls him into his arms. 

“Jesus, Peter,” he whispers, pressing his lips into Peter’s hair. “What the hell was that?” 

This is the real problem, Peter knows. 

Derek doesn’t remember. 

No one remembers. 

*

“Do you remember Beacon Hills?” 

Derek looks at Peter, and he frowns.  ~~_ Remembers thick woods and a pale boy and blood soaked streets and terror on his tongue _ ~~ . “What?” 

* 

The thing is--he’s tired. He’s so tired. But he’s also fucking  _ sick _ of being scared. So he turns to Derek, one day, while his nephew leans against him and sips his coffee, and says, “I need to find some information.” 

Derek gives him a sleepy smile and curls deeper into Peter’s side and nods. “Kay.” 

*

Peter doesn’t tell him much about what he’s looking for. Books arrive at in town for them, and Derek brings them home with fresh fruit, busies himself with making fish tacos and beans while Peter pours through them. He smiles at him-- ~~_ the picture is incomplete, like someone should be there, bent over the books with Peter _ ~~ \--and makes them plates, drags Peter away when he starts to snap and reek of frustration. 

Derek doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but Peter smells determined instead of terrified, and that--that’s enough for now. 

*

Sometimes, Peter misses Stiles so much he can’t breath. 

He doesn’t regret leaving Beacon Hills. 

He doesn’t regret leaving so many to die, or that he survived. 

The only thing he regrets--the only time he thought about going back--is when he thinks of Stiles. 

He does wonder, sometimes, if Lydia is still there, screaming for the dead. 

*

Peter is pack, and pack is affectionate, and Derek doesn’t always remember why they shouldn’t be. 

He sometimes kisses Peter, and he doesn’t think it’s strange, although Peter looks at him, after, and there’s something heavy and dark in his eyes.  ~~_ Peter isn’t the only one who looked at him like that, warm eyes, sunshot whiskey, used to, gauging and assessing. _ ~~

“Derek,” he asks, sometimes, when they cuddle on the couch and he can taste Peter’s lips still. “What do you remember about growing up?” 

* 

He feels his memories fuzzing, sometimes. 

It takes him a week to remember Scott’s name, and he has a panic attack over it, that only Derek’s heartbeat, steady under his ear, is able to soothe. 

He forgets. 

He forgets, and knows he’s forgetting but he isn’t always sure he remembers  _ what. _

He remembers  _ Stiles _ and hooves in the woods, and thunder in the sky and a green fire that  _ burns.  _

He pays a witch to curse him, and she thinks it’s a curse, but he can’t--he won’t lose anymore than he already has to the hunt. 

He won’t lose Stiles. 

He wishes, he wishes so damn much that Derek remembered him. 

* 

The first time they fuck, Peter has a fresh burn on his shoulder and Derek has one on his hip and he hisses when Peter presses a kiss to it. 

“I hate you,” he mutters and Peter nods. 

“I know, darling.” 

“You won’t even tell me, why.” 

“I will, eventually,” he promises, and then his mouth is full of Derek’s cock, and he doesn’t talk much, nothing more than,  _ is it good?  _ And  _ yeah, baby, you’re doing so good.  _ And  _ you’re taking it so well, you look so pretty, sweetheart.  _ And  _ Derek, _ over and over, and once  ~~_ c’mon, Der, you’re a werewolf, fuck me hard, I can take it.  _ ~~

Derek kisses him, licks into his open mouth and comes with Peter’s hand on his cock, a slow steady stroke, Peter’s cock in him, a deep grinding glide, and the scent of  _ them _ drowning out any ghosts in their bed. 

*

He remembers, slowly. 

Malia, his beautiful, defiant daughter. 

Lydia, the banshee they left behind. 

The preserve and the pack, Scott and the sheriff and Beacon Hills. 

He remembers the way it looked, the day they left, windy and empty, leaves whistling over the pavement and hooves pounding in the distance. 

“Derek,” he asks, sprawled over his nephew’s legs, basking naked in the sunlight, “Derek, promise me if you hear horses--you’ll run.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and he looks up at Derek, who never asks, and never questions his strange demands, who is  _ here _ of all fucking places. 

Derek, who came for him, when no one in the world should. 

He would die, he thinks, if he loses Derek. 

“Ok, Uncle Peter,” Derek murmurs and leans down to kiss him. 

*

He remembers in a rush. 

He’s swimming, Peter reading on the beach and thunder echoes. 

Peter doesn’t scream and flinch from thunder anymore, but even in the water, he can hear the uptick of Peter’s heartbeat, can feel his finding him in the water. 

He can almost feel Stiles’ rolling his eyes, fond and exasperated. 

_ Stiles.  _

He gasps, and he  _ remembers.  _

*

“I don’t know how I could--how did I  _ forget _ him,” Derek whispers, broken. He’s staring at Peter, his eyes red and wet, and Peter pulls him up to kiss him, presses against his mouth as Derek trembles. 

“You remember now, darling. You remember now.” 

“I forgot you,” he whispers, trembling. “I forgot you, forgot Eichen, jesus,  _ Peter.”  _

“It’s what they do, Derek. You--everyone forgets.” Peter kisses him, and it feels real, real in a way only Derek has since they left Beacon Hills. 

Derek is real, and he’s here, and he  _ remembers.  _

* 

Some days, he can’t believe he forgot. 

Some days, he wishes he still could. 

But he understands now, when Peter goes quiet and pensive, when his eyes are distant, because he can see it too, the place a pale boy with moles and pink mouth should be, he can  _ see _ how much Stiles belongs here, with them. 

~~_ Once, he thinks about going back for Stiles. But he remembers Peter’s screams, the terror that rolled off him in the hotel in Houston, and he never does mention it.   _ ~~

He remembers. They both remember. 

Peter kisses Derek, now, often and freely. He doesn’t wait for Derek to come to him anymore. He leans into every touch, reaches for him and presses kisses into his hair, into his throat, into his lips, licks into his mouth when Derek is opens for him with a whimper. 

He sleeps in Derek’s bed, and when he wakes from nightmares, his heart pounding and terrified, Derek kisses him softly, and whispers, “I’ve got you, Peter. I’ve got you. I remember everything.” 

*

They have demons. They are haunted, by ghosts no one knows, and nightmares neither can outpace. 

But sometimes, Derek wakes next to Peter, and his face is warm and soft with sleep. He wakes him with a kiss, with lazy slow touches that coax his uncle awake the way nightmares never do, and Peter smiles at him as Derek straddles him, grips his hips as Derek eases down on his cock, and for a while, as they move together in a dreamlike sweet slowness, there are no ghosts to haunt them. 


End file.
